


The Mechanics of Making Out

by spoilerarlert



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-05-21 10:39:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14913833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spoilerarlert/pseuds/spoilerarlert
Summary: Mikasa and Eren decide to practice making-out after Eren receives some not-so-friendly jeers from his overly-sexually-active teammate Jean. Next thing you know, the two are trapped in a "Friends With Benefits" sort of arrangement...





	The Mechanics of Making Out

**CHAPTER ONE | Practice  
** _Eren_

"Shardis. Typical bull."

Mikasa's radar is as sharp as ever. Not even looking up from her book, she's picked up on the invisible stormcloud brewing over my head.

"Good try but strike one," I sigh. I crash into the the seat next to her, collapsing onto the patio table. Her colored pens rattle as my head clanks against the surface.

"Hold up," she says, tapping my ear with her index finger. She yanks at the corner of a math packet currently pinned beneath my chin. I lift my neck, and the calc problems slip out, soon to be mauled by her pencil.

"Did Armin leave already?" I ask, noting his familiar scrawl trailing across a sticky note.

"Yeah, he's probably past security by now, probably cringing at how expensive airport food is," Mikasa answers, turning to face me with that classic Mikasa expression: brow crinkled in worry, lips pressed in a tight line, and eyes scanning me, reading deep, searching for the answer. Rarely does she strike out. "Wait, are you sure about that one? He made you run an extra mile didn't he?"

"That's nothing new. I'm numb to it by now," I reply, waving my hand dismissively. "Try again."

"The calc test that you pretended didn't exist and therefore bombed."

"Strike two. Wow, you really don't know me if you think shit like that actually affects—"

"I was just making a point. Then it's obviously Kirstein."

"Ding-ding-ding." I pull out two beers, ice-cold from my backpack and hand one to her.

Enter Jean Kirstein. He's this cancerous lump in my personal narrative that I can't seem to shake off, constantly  _present_  in my life, armed with the sole purpose of triggering migraines just when life is actually going okay. He lives a five minute walk east from my place, in a brick house with nicely-manicured flowerbeds, courtesy of his mom, who, believe it or not, in no way resembles her son, neither in appearance nor in temperament. (Unlike her kid, who  _reeks_  of manipulation and all things rotten, she's actually great. She had a brief stint as a substitute teacher, but they had to let her go because instead of administering a bio test, she ended up chatting with us for the whole block, genuinely sympathizing over what an ass high school can be.)

If there's one thing Jean's done right in our four years at Trost High, it's hiding the glaring fact that he's a sleaze from poor Ms. Kirstein. At our kick-off banquet for soccer last month, when her sweet, little Jean strutted on stage to make a few captain's remarks, she wore the hugest grin on her face. Little did she know, that cafeteria was  _packed_  with people glaring at her kid, stewing with morbid ideas of vengeance. Girls he fucked. Guys he cuckolded. Even faculty who can't look at themselves in the mirror anymore.

His DNA is  _everywhere_. In the baseball dugout, swim team locker room, girls' showers, teacher bathrooms, teacher lounge—you name it, his dick has been there. The guys on the soccer team hail him as the Legend. The JV boys flock to him for tips and tricks of his trade.

"So how has Jean decided to pester you this time?" Mikasa asks, popping off the caps with the bottle opener on her keychain. We clink, and we both take our first sips.

To this, I hesitate for a moment, letting the taste of the beer linger in my mouth before swallowing. Under normal circumstances, I would have zero qualms telling Mikasa anything. If anything, I enjoy telling her things. She drops whatever she's doing and gives me this steady look, hand propped under her chin, reminding me to sip at my beer, validating whatever I say. The best part: her commentary. People don't know she's actually a hilarious person. Hell, I'm not even sure if she intends to be hilarious, but she's knows exactly what to say and packages it all up in this compact bullet of quiet sarcasm that hits the mark. Every fucking time.

But today, I can't find the words to tell her.

* * *

Let's backpedal a bit.

Rewind about an hour, back in the locker rooms that perpetually reek of feet, sweat, and something reminiscent of cheese. It's Monday, the day after a weekend of debauchery and liver abuse—which means that Jean got to regale us with the vivid details of his Friday, Saturday, and Sunday exploits on this sad, sad day of reckoning. The JV boys huddled close as Jean, towel wrapped around his crotch, enlightened them with, so help me, proper fingering technique. For the less aware, he was even generous enough to sketch out a diagram of the plumbing downstairs, if you will.

"I mean, you gotta give him some credit," Connie whispered to me. "He'd be a damn good sex-ed teacher."

We stared in disbelief at Jean's growing audience, what was once two or three stringy fifteen-year olds that then mutated into a mob of rapt, awestruck morons of all shapes and sizes and ages.

A senior on the girl's team named Ymir wanted to play a prank on Mikasa and rallied up enough votes to boost her into the prom court. As a result, Mikasa's worst nightmare came true last week when prom king and queen nominees were announced, effectively chaining her with Jean.

"Yo, aren't you and that hot Asian chick on the prom court?" a freshman called out. "Are you gonna go for it?"

Jean stiffened momentarily. A flush worked its way up to the bridge of his nose before he managed to regain his footing. Pasting on a disgusting grin, he rebounded with a cringe-worthy wink, "I'll keep you guys posted."

"Like hell you will," I retorted immediately from across the locker room. I could feel the weight of a dozen stares on me.

"Oh, right," Jean sneered, rolling his eyes. "That would make sense since this is coming from the guy who's so attached to her that I get secondhand embarrassment just watching him."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" I demanded.

"You're basically her boyfriend, but you treat her like total shit. I bet you haven't even kissed her yet, and it's been like so many years. Hell, you've probably never even seen first base," he drawled, drawing forth a few sniggers from the crowd.

"Dude, we're  _friends_  and nothing more! You're pulling all of this out of your  _ass_!" I shot back.

Before I could plow through the desperate virgins and slug him, Connie had already grabbed my stuff and dragged me out of the locker room, towards his car.

"Not worth it, man," he said, despite my protests.

"Where the fuck is he getting all this?!"

"Dude, how do you  _not_  know?" Connie remarked, revving up the engine. He veered around a herd of lacrosse girls before turning out of the parking lot.

"What are you talking about?"

"Eren, Jean's been like head-over-heels for her… ever since middle school—"

"Say  _what_?"

"God, you're really clueless aren't you? He's jealous as fuck of you."

"Wait, I know that part, but how does that relate to this whole thing?"

Connie groaned, shooting me an exasperated look. "Because of Mikasa, you moron. Do I really need to spell it out?"

"Seriously, dude. I have no idea what you're saying."

"Jesus-fucking-Christ, he's jealous because you guys are like this—" He crossed his fingers. "You're kinda in the way. But seriously, you're seventeen and you haven't made it to first base yet? How can Mikasa still stand you?"

"Dude, we're  _not_  dating, and Jean can go fuck himself. Like, what does that matter at all?"

"So you haven't!"

"Well…"

"Eren, seriously?! Not to be weird or anything, but even though girls think you're a little weird, they still think you're a fucking catch! How have you  _not_  made out with someone yet? I actually wanna punch you in the face right now."

"Where on earth do you hear this shit…"

"Sash has friends. Seriously, dude. This weekend, we're gonna fix that."

"No, it's fine."

"Eren, this is important life experience you need."

* * *

"Eren?"

Her voice pulls me out of my thoughts.

"Hi."

She gives me a confused look. "You were saying?"

"Jean wants to hook up with you," I blurt out.

I'm not sure what I was expecting—an astonished gasp, a dead silence, or even an enraged " _ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!"_

But she just snorts and takes a sip of her beer. "You found out just today?"

"What?"

"That's been the status quo since… the sixth grade. All this time, you had no idea?" she inquires, giving me a keen look.

"I mean, I really don't give a shit what he does or says."

"Fair enough."

"So you're going to prom with him?"

"Please."

"You're ditching him?"

"For the record, I'm 'sick' this Friday," she says before allowing a tiny smile. "Should I tell him the day of?"

"And render him dateless and awkward in all those pictures?" I add on.

We clink bottles once more and take a celebratory gulp.

"I'm going to hell," she remarks.

"Me too, by association."

She laughs, a quiet sound. "So tell me, what else is up? There's another thing going on in your life that I can't seem to figure out."

"Well," I begin, "he did bring up something. Gave me shit about how I've never made out with anybody."

"Oh? What was the context?"

"I said some shit about how he'll never hook up with you, and he got awkward, and when he has like his little army of hormonal freshman listening to him, it's like social suicide to get called out like that, so to save his ass, he shifted everything onto me," I explain, shrugging. "But like, I don't care. It happens when it happens, I guess."

She nods in a thoughtful silence.

"Have you ever kissed anybody?" I venture. "At a party or anything?"

"You'd know if I had," she replies, giving me a strange expression.

"I dunno, I was just thinking about it all. It's a weird concept. Like, how does it  _work_?"

"You tell me," she says.

"And who started this whole thing? And what if you miss? And isn't it kinda… gross? All slobbery and shit?"

"When you Google this stuff, make sure you're on Incognito."

"Okay, screw off. But seriously, humans are fucking bizarre. Kissing's kinda like a… social expectation now. What if you're not into it, but you're stuck doing it for the rest of your life because that first guy a thousand years ago in Rome or some shit started this trend that's now, like, cemented in social behavior?"

"So if you had it your way, you wouldn't kiss your future girlfriend?" Mikasa asks, sounding a little disappointed.

"Well, I don't really know what it is, but if it's just unpleasant, then yeah. I'd rather not do it, but I'd still feel pressured by what we see in movies and books and TV to do it."

"I heard it's supposed to be really nice," she says. "If two people know what they're doing."

"Man, I just can't imagine it. When it comes time to do that, I swear to God, I'm gonna screw it up, just watch me."

"Some people think that's part of the thrill, not knowing what you're doing. And hey, if you screw up, that makes for a great story in ten years."

"Yeah, but getting dumped doesn't."

"Not all girls are like that. What's probably gonna happen is that afterwards you two will share a nauseatingly-cute giggle and then get it right the second time."

"Not all girls are  _that_  forgiving, you know. I don't know, it's just nice to be prepared."

"For the most reckless person on the planet, this is the most careful I've ever seen you."

"This actually blows. Kissing is such a pivotal part in a relationship, and rookies are doomed from the start because how the fuck are we supposed to know what to do? It's not like we can practice beforehand or study up or come prepared in the least."

We're both quiet for a moment. Until Mikasa begins to say something, but on second thought, she cuts back. The statement crouches on the tip of her tongue, eager to burst from her behind her sealed lips.

"What?" I ask.

"It's nothing," she replies curtly. "Worrying about these kinda things is no use, Eren."

"No, spill. You were gonna say something."

"Nope."

"C'mon, Mikasa."

"I'm drunk. I'm not thinking straight."

"Cut the crap, you've had  _half_  a beer."

"I just had a really stupid idea."

"Let's hear it."

"Please spare me the embarrassment."

I reach across the table and pocket her iPhone. "Pay the ransom."

"You're obnoxious."

"Pay up."

"You won't make it two steps off our property, and you know that."

"Watch me," I challenge, rising up from my chair. I dangle the phone inches from her face. Her fingers just nick its edge when I swing it away from her outstretched arm.

"You're a child. Fine, I'll tell you only because I don't feel like pinning you to the ground and making you beg for mercy," she mutters. Sighing, she faces me head-on and says, "I was gonna say that… maybe we could, uh…" Her voice trails off. A rare blush creeps up her neck.

"We could what?"

"Um… this is why it's a really stupid idea, but—dammit, keep the phone."

"Mikasa, just tell me."

"Practice!" she forces out, her gaze dropping to the patio.

"Practice?"

"Yes!"

"Kissing?"

"Mmhmm!"

"You and me?"

"Who else?"

All words have escaped me. I stand there, staring at her, trying my hardest to process what she's saying. By now, her entire face has taken on a firetruck-like hue, a sight that would otherwise be comical if we weren't—who am I kidding? This is fucking hysterical. Next thing I know, I'm keeling over, overcome by a wave of laughter.

"Eren?" she asks, her eyes wide in confusion.

"You should see your face," I manage, fighting another wave as her face reddens even more.

"Fuck you, Eren," she mutters, chucking an eraser that would've lodged itself into my eye socket if I hadn't ducked.''

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

"See? It was a stupid idea."

"Wait a sec, though," I say, returning to my spot beside her, sliding her phone back into her possession. "Tell me why you came up with that."

She takes a while to come up with an answer, concentrating on a scribble in the margins of her notes. "It's one of those things," she begins slowly, "that randomly pop into your head. Nothing of importance, just happens when your brain jumbles too many things together."

"So I'm gonna call bull on that one because you wouldn't have said anything if it was just a passing thought."

"Dammit, Eren," she concedes. "Okay, I'm just gonna put it out there. There's a lot of trust and history here, and I really don't think it'll get weird, and hey, we both kinda need to figure this thing out anyways."

"By 'this thing,' you're referring to learning how to kiss properly, right?"

She takes a few seconds before answering, "Yeah."

* * *

We sit on the couch in my basement, a foot apart. I'm fidgeting awkwardly. She's trying not to make eye contact with me.

"Okay, so… are we just gonna go for it?" I ask, swallowing uncomfortably.

"There's no other way to do it."

Taking a deep breath, I scoot closer to her, until her right leg is making contact with my left leg. She's nervous too. Her gaze, usually focused and attentive, watches me with scattered confusion, flickering between my eyes and my mouth. My hand mimics the way they do it in the movies, reaching up to cup her face. She blinks in surprise when my fingers make contact with the skin of her cheek, and I sit there, in awe that I'm  _this_  close to Mikasa, my next-door neighbor who I've known since elementary school, one of my best friends, soon to be kissing her—for practice.

"Wait," I say. "How do I do this now?"

"Just go for it," she urges, her eyes intently locked to mine.

"Do we… keep our eyes open or do we close them? I think people usually close them at this point."

"Uh, sure. Let's do it," she answers, fluttering her eyelids closed.

I lean in, about to do the same, when it suddenly occurs to me how thick her eyelashes are. Dark, long, coated with just a tiny bit of that black eyelash paste stuff…  _mascara_ , yes, that's what they call it.

"Uh, Eren?"

"Yeah?"

"Is everything okay?"

"Dude, you have a ton of eyelashes."

"Oh my God,  _Eren_."

"Sorry, sorry. I'll focus."

I brush a strand of her hair away from her face, running my hand through her hair, pausing where her jawline meets her neck. It's dark in the basement. I can't see much, but I'm leaning towards where her lips are. Our foreheads touch. We're so close, closer than we've ever been before. A part of me wants to stop right here and check to make sure my trajectory's okay, that I'll land in the right spot, but the momentum pushes me onwards, and my eyelids fluttering close, I kiss her.

I'm not entirely sure what to expect, but when I open my eyes, craning my head back to discern her features in the dark, something's not right.

"Well," she says, searching for the right words.

My heart sinks. "Oh, god. What happened?"

She's quiet. Still searching. Shit. Shit. Shit. I feel her quivering beside me, and then it occurs to me that she's cracking up. Her laughter, a pretty sound that I haven't heard in awhile, rings through the room like a bell tolling to the world and announcing how much I suck.

"Alright, I gotta go," I mumble hastily, starting to get up, but still laughing, she takes my wrist and yanks me back down.

"Oh, Eren," she says, tipping her head back against the tree trunk. "Relax." In the darkness, there is an unmistakable grin stretched wide across her face.

"I fucked up. Yeah, I suck. I know. Let's forget that ever happened," I rattle off, well aware that there's a single, irritating bead of sweat rolling down the side of my face.

I should've seen this coming a mile away. "FAILURE" spelled out in the stars, in clear view, right smack in front of me.

"Your aim was a bit off," she remarks. "Got my nose."

"Ah, shit," I mumble, my face burning up.

"But, um, if that was your target initially," she adds, a little flustered herself. "Uh, thank you for th—"

"Nope," I cut her off, disintegrating in my own embarrassment. "Your nose was not, in fact, my target at all."

We both sit there, bathing in the thick awkwardness of the situation, neither of us entirely sure where to proceed from there. I suppose drowning myself in the river isn't too bad of an option.

As I debate other possible ways to punish myself for fucking up to such a humiliating degree, I freeze when Mikasa takes my hand in hers this time.

"That was strike one. You've got two more chances," she comments, breaking the silence.

In the dim moonlight, rather than seeing an appalled expression, I still see that grin, stretching from ear to ear. Rather than storming off, pissed that she's wasted so much time with such a blundering moron, she's looking at me with her eyes crinkled in amusement.

This time, I'm careful. I position my hand on her cheek once again, along her jaw. I make a mental note of where her nose is, inwardly screaming to aim lower.  _LOWER_. This time, our noses brush against each other, and right there, we pause, giving ourselves the freedom to laugh softly, before angling our faces  _just_  right, as if fitting together two jigsaw pieces. Her hand squeezes mine as my lips meet hers, and I taste hints of mint and this other flavor that can only be native to Mikasa herself. We stay like that for quite some time, entirely clueless as to how this kissing thing works, but entirely positive that it's kinda nice.

When we come up for air, she instantly crumbles into a fit of giggles. Her laughter, being contagious as hell, reduces me to the same state, and we lay there, slumped on the couch, cracking up like there's no tomorrow.

"So comments? Remarks?" I ask her, wrapping her around my arms.

She ponders for a moment, smiling into the crook of my neck. "Slobbery," she says finally.

"Well, I think that's how it's supposed to work, right?"

"You're asking the wrong person. I'm as inexperienced as you are," she replies with a shrug.

There's something both frustrating and exciting about this. For the longest time, I thought I knew Mikasa Ackerman inside-out: her quirks, her annoying habits, her pet peeves, etc. But this… physical aspect is uncharted territory. It's like living in the same house for your entire childhood, only to discover a staircase behind the bathroom sink leading to a secret attic.

"I guess we're just gonna have to experiment here and here," I tell her, kissing her again.

That evening, we each pick our favorite lip. We figure out how tongue works in the whole equation. My lips learn to navigate her neck. Her hands map out the contours of my back.

Later, when we're standing on her front porch, ready to say goodnight, a twinkle dances between her eyes as she leans against her door, not yet touching the doorknob. I shrug, trying with all my might to stifle a smirk. There's a silence before I give in to her pretty face and kiss her one last time tonight before heading back to my room with a slight bounce in my step.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Leave and review/comment and lmk what you think!


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